A Knight's Honor
by hhrpryd42
Summary: Sir Harry Potter is the most famous knight in all of England. Tales of his bravery are told in pubs 247, and he is quickly becoming the stuff of legend. But when his archrival, Sir Tom Riddle, sore off a loss, uncovers evidence detailing his peasant birth


**A Knight's Honor**

A/N: Hello again. I know, I know, it's been a long time since I last wrote anything, and a lot of you must be utterly, horribly shocked. I've been going through some things in my life that have kept me from writing, and from living, but I'm past them now and so I'm writing again.

Y'know, it's a little funny - when I posted this story a few years ago, I was so proudof it and expected it to get lots of reviews, and it actually didn't. And now I'm back, and it's the first thing I'm posting.

So Misao7's back, a little older, a little wiser, but still me. Hope you enjoy the story,

Misao7

PS: Please, please, do review. Authors like us, we get discouraged if we don't get reviews, and really the reviews are all that fuels a story and keeps it going. Thanks again!

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**A Knight's Honor**

Chapter 1

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The afternoon sun shone through the grimy windows of the dingy pub, but only just. Nobody had cleaned the windows in months, and nobody had bothered to sweep the floor since the pub opened more than twenty years ago. The stone floor of the thriving center was buried under years worth of dirt and dust, but the pub's patrons barely noticed. Some were perched on barrels, chugging down tankard after tankard of ale and feasting on bread and other goods from the uproarious kitchen. Others were lying on the solid wooden tables and floor, completely drunk and unaware of their world. Still others sat in rapture, listening eagerly to the messenger's tale of the latest jousting tournament.

Two young men were sitting in their own dark corner, mugs of ale half-drunken before them. They were identical to the last freckle, both wearing green cothardies and maroon pullover hoods with shoulder gussets. The two colors clashed horribly with their bright, flaming-red hair. They were twins, it was obvious, and they, unlike most of the pub's patrons, were totally uninterested in the messenger's tales of lore.

The young man on the left turned to his twin and asked, "Did you hear about Sir Potter, George?" with an air of mock seriousness.

"Oh, no, Fred. Certainly not." George drawled in a sarcastic voice. "I haven't heard a word about dear Sir Potter since we set foot in the city of his birth. In fact, I haven't heard a word about the poor man since he beat the Prince at his own game."

"Well, you can't really expect me to say anything else, now, what with his most recent win."

"Why couldn't we have gotten to see that?"

"It was in West End. We stand about as much a chance of getting to see a jousting match in West End as we do of successfully invading Scotland, just the two of us."

"Right you are." George sighed and took a sip of his ale. "It was bloody fantastic, though, or so Lee Jordan says."

Fred waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Couldn't have been better than the one at Essex."

"Nah, the one at Essex only lasted one run. This one took forever."

"That's the beauty of it, see? One run, I tell you. One run, and Sir Potter had the Duke down. Shattered the poor man's lance and near ruined his shield."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. I like the longer ones meself."

Fred swigged down another gulp of ale and looked at his twin over the top of his tankard. "Potter was brilliant. Ruthburt gave me a full account of the match. I'm telling you, George…" he pulled out a sheaf of parchment, "Sir Potter's the best."

George took the parchment and read the first few lines eagerly, eyes almost flying across the page. He was about halfway through when his mouth dropped open and he stared back at Fred.

"But…it can't say…"

"Oh, but it does." Fred smiled. "Our dear Sir Potter was hit heavily on the first run."

"Hit heavily!" George exclaimed, astonished. "His shield broke clean in half! He beat the Earl of Hertfordshire without his shield! Ruthburt's hand was shaking, Fred! That's impossible!"

His twin grinned back at him. "George," he said in a smart tone, "are you telling me that something in God's good world is impossible for Sir Harry Potter?"

---------------------------------------------------

At the moment, something was impossible for Sir Harry Potter, honored champion of knights and lance master extraordinaire.

He was standing in front of a large glass mirror, trying to sort out an acceptable outfit for that night's tournament grand ball. Unfortunately, being a male, his sense of fashion was about as developed as his – well, never mind that. Harry Potter was by no means a hero when you looked at him in person. Tousled-hair under his helmet and wide-eyed without his visor, he gave the distinct impression of being an immature sixteen-year-old boy, which, of course, was what he was.

Harry frowned in frustration, tugging on the uncomfortably tight collar of his leather doublet. How had he let them talk him into this? He didn't want to take Cho Chang to the ball! By Jove, he didn't want to go to the bloody ball. It was just another torture device that unfortunately came with being a knight. All he wanted to do was make a name for himself, settle down with a nice, wonderful girl who understood him, have a few (dozen) lovely children and die a nobleman.

"Ron!" he yelled, not for the first time this hour. "Ron, I need your help!"

"Hold on a second, Harry!" Ron Weasley bounded into the room, arms full with more doublets, jerkins, breeches, leggings, and other uncomfortable-looking articles of clothing that Harry loathed with a passion. "What's the matter?" His normally serene face looked pale and strained.

Harry gestured toward the pile of clothing, thoroughly incensed. "Don't you have something in there that's not going to choke me to death while I whirl mindlessly with Cho the – "

"Harry!"

"Oh, all right…but I need something quick." He tugged harder on the scrunching collar. "Ron, come on!"

Ron tossed his hands helplessly in the air. "Where's Ginny when you need her?"

"Right here."

Ginny walked into the room, supremely disaffected. "Good day, Harry, Ron," she smiled. "How are you?"

"Just fine, thanks," Harry gasped. "Except for the infernal collar that won't let me go!"

Ginny giggled. "I wouldn't either."

The two boys groaned. "Ginny…I'm going to die…" Harry moaned, "And all you can do is make jokes?"

She sighed with mock impatience. "Oh, all right." She sorted through the pile of clothing on Harry's bed. "Ron, couldn't you get something out of his dresser and not yours? We need something that's going to dress him up, not make him look like a peasant."

Ron's ears went red. "I am not a peasant!"

"That's right. You aren't. Now off with you." Ginny hustled him off to the dresser room. "You're a kennel boy." She said under her breath, turning to Harry. "Now off with those. No, no, no, I'm not asking you to show yourself off, I'm asking you to just take off your outer garments." She slapped him playfully on the arm, grinning. "Lecher. You know perfectly well that I'm being courted by the Prince's son himself."

"The Prince, eh? Sinking to our level. I am awash with scandal."

"You be quiet, Harry." Ginny laughed.

Harry grinned devilishly and stripped down to his linen underwear as Ron returned with a hefty load in his arms, dumping it unceremoniously onto his bed. "That there," he said, pointing to a bottle-green jerkin. "Just let me wear it on top of my orange shirt."

"No!" Ginny squealed, horrified. "Green on bright orange is treason! You're wearing it on top of your white suede, or God help me I'll tie you and Ron up in your bedchamber and you won't be seen for another month!"

"Calm down, Gin." Ron moaned, rubbing the feeling back into his arms. "He'll wear it, won't you, Harry?"

"Yeah," the knight said, pulling the white suede shirt over his head and following with the jerkin. "Ginny, are you sure this is all right?"

"Yes, Harry. Just put on your white linen chausses and you'll be perfect." She clapped her hands. "More than you already are, that is."

Ron threw her a dangerous glare. "Ginny…"

She couldn't help but laugh. "Such an uptight brother. How I lived through schooling without him escapes me."

Harry settled into his outfit, turning 360 degrees in the mirror for himself and Ginny to see. Convinced that he looked perfect, Ginny smoothed out some of the creases in his clothes and walked him out of the inn room and into Cho's; Ron tagging on their heels with an emergency set of the jerkin-chausses-shirt combination.

Harry cleared his throat and knocked miserably on the door, wincing when the voice of Cho Chang filtered in from the room. His mood brightened considerably, however, when he heard what the voice had to say.

"Oh, Harry!" Cho all but sobbed. "I can't – I can't – I can't go to the ball! The news's just come. My father is dying, back in Wiltfordshire – oh dear, oh dear!" Harry suppressed his manic grin as Cho continued her tale of pity. "He's fallen deathly ill, the good doctor says he's dying – oh, what am I to do?"

"Er – Miss Cho?" Ginny asked awkwardly, pushing Harry away from the door and throwing him a dark look. "Are you all right?"

"Ginny!" Cho cried, not opening the door. "Ginny! What are we going to do? It's simply barbaric, just simply barbaric, for Sir Harry to not go to the ball with me. And it's treason if he doesn't go! Oh, Father, why today of all days to die?"

Ginny glared at a sniggering Ron and Harry as she hastily knocked on the door again. "Miss Cho? I'm very, very sorry about your father, but Sir Harry cannot go to the ball or fight in the tournament if he does not have a lady. We need you. There is nobody else free or willing."

The mock-sobs stopped. "What about you?" Cho asked in a nasty voice.

Ginny blushed furiously. "Well – er – you see – "

"She's being courted by Sir Draco Malfoy." Ron leered at the still closed door. "I suppose you've heard of him."

"D-Draco Malfoy - !"

"Yes, that's right," Ginny leapt onto Ron's outstretched foot and hastily tried to salvage some sense of pride. "Draco's trying to win my hand, but that's not important right now, Miss Cho. We need you."

"Very well," Cho complied, in a high-and-mighty tone. "If it is absolutely necessary, I suppose I can make the ball…Wiltfordshire is not that far…but I will most likely be a few minutes tardy. Is that all right with you, Harry dear?"

"Er – all right." Harry said awkwardly. "That's fine, thanks. Just try to make it."

"It's settled, then!" Ginny hastily hustled Ron and Harry away from the door. "Miss Cho, Harry is wearing a green jerkin over a white suede shirt and white chausses. Please coordinate your outfit as to his…thank you…good day."

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So it happened that when Sir Harry Potter arrived at the ball that evening, he had no lady on his arm, only Ginny and Ron serving as his escort.

"She's not here yet!" Ginny muttered darkly, looking out of the side of the carriage as it pulled onto the driveway. "How could she not be here yet – I knew we should have gone with Miss Lovegood for this tournament!"

"Calm down, Gin," Ron said, not for the first or last time, turning from his game of chess with Harry. "Luna Lovegood's busy, at any rate." A faint flush appeared on his cheeks, thankfully missed by Harry and Ginny. "Checkmate," he added, finishing the game.

"Damn." Harry replied nonchalantly. "Closer loss this time, though. I put you in check. Good enough for me."

"Yeah, but you'll never win if you keep trying to four-move me. It just doesn't work on players with intelligence above that of a troll's." Ron grinned.

"Sod off, Weasley." Harry grinned back.

"Come on, Harry," Ginny tugged on his shirtsleeve. "We have to get in. If you're really lucky maybe Cho won't show up and you won't have to please her."

This lightened Harry considerably. "Come on, then. If we get in before she does, she can't come in on her own."

The three of them jumped out of the carriage, paid the horseman, and walked demurely up to the great silver gates of the Finnigan Estate where the ball was to be held. Upon entry to the wide, lushly vegetated garden, a tall and strapping guardsman who was apparently also the usher stopped them with a great, lethal-looking sword and a wide grin, the two of which did not seem to match.

"Halt, Sir Harry Potter," he greeted, "I'm sorry, but I cannot let you in."

Ron fought his way up to the usher, drawing himself up to his full height. "Why's that, Dean?"

Dean Thomas grinned apologetically. "Well, hello, Ron! Still Sir Harry's esquire, no?"

"Yeah," growled Ron, "And you, you're still Seamus's lap – "

"Ron!" squealed Ginny reprovingly, pushing him aside and turning to Dean. "Ignore him, Dean. Now why can't we be let in?"

Dean brushed off the comment from Ron and smiled at Ginny again. "Sir Harry doesn't have a lady with him. I'm under Seamus – er, Sir Finnigan's – orders to not let anyone in without a lady. You see, His Highness and Her Highness are in the manor at the moment."

Ginny's eyes bugged and she turned around to straighten Harry's collar.

"Dean," Harry gasped, fighting from under Ginny's assault. "Cho's coming in a minute, her father's dying and all – "

"Sorry, Harry." Dean apologized. "Orders. You can wait for her in the driveway, though, while Ron and Ginny come in to represent you. I'm sure the Royal Majesties will understand."

"Oh, all right…" Harry grumbled, his stomach following suit. He hadn't eaten since that morning, having spent the better part of the day trying to pick out his outfit. "You and Ron go on in, Ginny. I'll wait for Cho out here."

"Ginny can go in," Ron interrupted. "I'll stay with you. I don't like these balls myself. I'd much rather stay with you. Fat lot of good stuffing myself will do, what with Seamus's food and all – "

"Ron!"

"Oh, all right." He grabbed Harry and frog-marched him outside. "See you, Gin."

They made their way to the driveway and waited in silence for Cho Chang to arrive and let Harry into the ball. Ten minutes passed and still no Cho. Thirty. An hour.

"What's keeping her!" Demanded Ron after an hour and fifteen minutes, his stomach crying out in response. "Even Seamus's Irish stuff is better than starving!"

"She's bloody well forgotten." Harry glared at the great silver gate, which seemed to be laughing at them. "Damn her! Why did we have to go with her?"

"You wanted her, remember?"

"That was before I heard her talk and witnessed for myself her horrible personality!"

"Too late, that. Sorry, mate."

Harry sighed heavily and settled against the wall. "We'd better pray there's no rain tonight. Ginny would kill me before His Majesty could."

"Right, that."

"Halt!" Just then, a voice rang out down the street. "In the name of the King of England, halt, I say!"

It was Dean, in his full guardsman glory, running full-speed from the manor's back entrance. Seamus and Ginny followed in hot pursuit, as well as seemingly all the knights of England.

"What's going on?" Ron asked, standing up, his face contorting in anger. "What're you doing, Dean!" He demanded, as the guardsman stopped inches from his face and aimed his sword squarely at his chest.

Harry's arm was twisted from behind him as Seamus put him in an Irish prisoner's hold, grunting with effort. "Seamus!" Harry yelled, fighting to get free. "What're you doing?"

"Stop!" Ginny cried. "Don't hurt him! We want him alive!"

"Me!" Harry cried disbelievingly. "Ginny, why – "

"Be quiet, Potter, and maybe we'll let you live."

Another voice rang out, silencing all others as the crowd parted to let Tom Riddle into view.

He leered at Harry from his five inches taller height, his lady on his arm.

"Sir Riddle," Harry spat. "Still smarting after that one-run win? I suppose I could lend you enough money for another shield, seeing as I broke yours – "

"Silence!" Sir Riddle spat. "You, Potter. You liar and traitor."

"What?"

"Liar, I said!" Riddle bellowed, his voice echoing in the empty street. "You lied about your birth! You're not the son of Sir James Potter, a good friend of mine! You're the son of Sirius Black! The traitor!"

Harry's mouth fell open. "Of all the – "

"SILENCE!" Riddle's face was twisted into a manic smile. "You're a common peasant. And your father was a thief! You've lied to us for years, to the very Majesties themselves!"

Harry's anger mushroomed inside of him. "My father was not a thief!"

"Oh, but he was." Riddle smiled again. "Pettigrew!"

Peter Pettigrew emerged from the throng of people surrounding Harry and Ron. Tense and rat like, he pointed a shaking middle finger at Harry and uttered, "J-J-James Potter was a f-f-friend of mine! H-H-He never m-m-married Lily – "

"You're trusting him!" Harry growled, fighting even more again Seamus's hold. "He's been tried and convicted for espionage! He should be in prison!"

"Oh, but he was framed." Riddle smiled superiorly. "Peter has been cleared of all charges, and upon his reentry to the civilized world he promptly contacted me and told me what he knew – that you, Potter, are a commoner. Not a noble. So you cannot be a knight. And neither can you go free, for you lied to His Highness at your knighthood ceremony. Treason, I tell you!" His eyes narrowed. "Punishable by death."

"NO!" Harry finally broke free of Seamus's hold, slugging the Irishman in the face – Ron broke away from Dean with a mad growl in the moment following and they ran down the street as fast as they could, the entire crowd after them.

"Halt, Potter!" Riddle's voice could be heard above all others. "HALT!"

But Harry and Ron were gone, tumbling down an alleyway and running full-tilt toward the other side, panting and gasping for breath – but their hopes plummeted as a very much solid brick wall stopped them in their tracks.

"No!" gasped Ron, clutching his side. "We're done for, Harry!"

"Be quiet, Ron, and help me find a way out!" Harry turned fleetingly, eyes widening as the crowd (which seemed to have swelled tenfold in size) turned the corner, gaining on them –

"Sir Harry Potter! Down here!"

They looked down and stared.

There in a tiny hidden alcove leading to a dark, empty flight of stairs was a teenage girl with wide, terrified eyes and bushy brown hair.

"Here, Sir! Don't worry, you'll be safe here – "

"Am I supposed to trust you!" Demanded Harry, eyes darting from Ron to the advancing crowd to the girl –

"Yes!" She hissed. "It's the only way!"

He made his decision in a split second, grabbing Ron by the arm and jumping into the alcove.

"This way!" cried the girl, running full-tilt down the stairs. "Follow me, and don't slip!"

The two boys ran as fast as they dared down the steps, anxiously keeping their eyes on the girl – the crowd was getting louder – the stairs were getting slipperier –

"Here!"

They darted down the last step and into a hidden room, whereupon the girl promptly pulled an old, rusty lever, prompting a rock to roll down the passageway and block up the stairs.

"What's happening – "

"Shhhh! Quickly! Follow me!"

The girl led the two of them into another bigger room, crouching down behind the door. They listened, hearts beating so loud it felt like they were housing jackrabbits in their chests. Finally the yelling stopped and Riddle's voice was heard.

"Must've escaped somehow, damn them!" He sounded furious. "Never mind that. We'll have wanted posters up all over England, and we'll watch the ships too. They won't get out of the country."

Moments later, the sounds from beyond the rock ceased, throwing the three of them into silence. The girl got up from behind the oaken door and pulled Harry and Ron up, seating them on a makeshift bed in one corner of the room.

"Well…you're safe, now. I won't betray you. Riddle's lying," she added, anger evident. "He's the one with the peasant birth."

"How do you know?" Harry gasped. "And who are you?"

"I heard them last night. One of these tunnels goes under the Riddle manor. Him and that traitor Pettigrew – they were planning it." She smiled. "As to who I am, my name is Hermione Granger of Benford."

Ron's expression was blank. "Benford…"

Hermione Granger sighed. "It's a very small town out in the Cotswolds. I don't expect you to know where it is. But I'm a noble by birth and association. My father is the Earl. My mother is distantly related to the royal family."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Granger," Harry nodded. "I'm Sir Harry Potter of London, and I belong to no order. My esquire and best friend is Ron Weasley of St. Ottery Catchpole."

"Charmed, I'm sure. And please, call me Hermione."

"Very well, my lady, if that is your wish."

"Good Lord, Harry, stop that!" Ron moaned, burying his face in his hands. "Think now! My sister's there with that traitorous bastard, you've been stripped of your title, we've lost our home and we can't go anywhere!"

"Actually," Hermione ventured, frowning at Ron, "there is somewhere we can go."

"Oh?" spat Ron. "And where's that? The hairdresser's?"

"No, you smarmy fool," spat Hermione in return. "We can clear Sir Harry's name. We just have to find Remus Lupin."

Silence.

"Remus?" Harry's brow furrowed. "Why him?"

"He raised you, didn't he?" Hermione asked impatiently, hands on her hips. "So he'll be able to clear your name. I heard about you from a friend of mine down at the palace. It seems the Princess is very interested in you."

"But Remus is – is – "

"Yes, Lupin is a peasant, and yes, therefore they won't listen to him…" Hermione clapped her hand to her forehead. "What about Albus Dumbledore?"

Harry blinked again. "My old tutor at Eton?"

"Yes." Hermione nodded. "Dumbledore. If we get him and Lupin together it should be smooth sailing from there on out."

"But Lupin's somewhere in Wales, and Dumbledore, well, I don't know where Dumbledore is now. I graduated from Eton quite a few years ago. I've lost contact with him since then."

"Then we go find him," Ron said, leaping up off the bed. "It'll be like quest, except Lupin's no Holy Grail."

"Alrighty then…" Harry nodded and stood up, bowing courteously to Hermione. "Thank you for your help, Hermione. Good day to you – "

"Who said anything about you two going off on your own?"

She smirked at their confused expressions. "Judging by the state of you two sorry boys, you wouldn't last a day out in the open. I, on the other hand…I've survived alone in London for two years. I know how to escape this place better than anyone."

"Hermione, we can't let you stay with us." Harry ran a hand through his already mussed hair, sighing in frustration. "It'll be dangerous."

She placed a placating hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Sir Harry. Ever the noble gentleman." Hermione laughed. "I'll be all right. I want to do this. This is the most fun I've had since I came here to London. I'll get you out of this city and to Lupin and Dumbledore, or so help me God I'll die trying."

Ron glared at her obstinately. "Maybe we're the ones that are going to die, if we listen to you. Harry, we just met this girl! How do we know whether she's not an informant or not?"

"She wouldn't be," Harry replied. "If she were an informant, she would have left us for dead. I trust her," he added. "I want you to trust her too, Ron, since she may very well be our best hope of surviving this mess alive."

Hermione smiled and gave Harry a thank-you nod. "Then it's settled."

She turned to an old wooden chest in another corner of the room and opened it, packing items into a cloth bag she carried across her chest. Turning from it, she threw a similar piece of cloth to Harry and Ron.

"Tie it across your bodies like this," she instructed, motioning to hers, "and pack what I ask you to pack. I'm going to ration our food and resources so we'll have enough. Sir Harry…" she threw him what appeared to be a rag. "Put that on. It's a peasant's doublet. You need to stay inconspicuous."

"Don't I get one?" Ron asked, helplessly floundering in his attempts to tie the cloth on right.

Hermione looked down her nose at him. "Do you need one?"

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A/N: As per usual, it is marginally beta-ed (because Misao couldn't get one...>.>) and Misao doesn't claim responsibility for any horrible errors. She welcomes any suggestions and critique, and reviews ON-SITE are her best friends.

Thanks!

Misao7


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